Sunset
by Joodiff
Summary: Post-"Waterloo". Grace is enjoying a quiet drink alone when he finds her. Enjoy!


**DISCLAIMER: **I own nothing.

_A little post-"Waterloo" ficlet for all my friends. xx_

* * *

**Sunset**

by Joodiff

* * *

"I find people, Grace," he says, and even if he doesn't physically shrug, it's more than obvious in his voice. "That's what I do. I find the people that other people want found."

The last bit of bright Tuscan sunlight steals the usual impenetrable darkness from his eyes, turn them from unforgiving gunmetal to a warm lazy bronze. She doesn't want to notice, but she does. Oh, yes, she notices. Still, she makes a disparaging noise and asks pointedly, "Even if they really don't _want_ to be found?"

"Even then," he agrees. "Especially then, you could say."

"Why are you here, Boyd?" she asks after a long moment, far too tired to play games with him.

He leans back in his chair, disarmingly relaxed. "I have a message for you. From your husband."

She's not surprised. Some ties are almost impossible to break. Picking up her glass, she looks out over the small plaza and somehow manages not to immediately bite back in angry response. The shadows are beginning to lengthen as late afternoon melts gently into early evening and the worst of the day's heat is starting to ebb away. For now the little village remains torpid, but soon enough there will be food and voices and wine. Not looking at him, she says, "I see."

"He wants you back."

That doesn't surprise her, either. In fact, the only surprise is that it's taken as long as it has. Almost exactly six weeks, to be precise. Livorno is hardly Finchley, but she doesn't believe for a moment that it's taken Boyd more than a few days to track her down. He's too good a detective, even in retirement. She's a bit of a detective, too. He hasn't been in Italy long – the light tan isn't yet deep enough. Looks good on him, though. Already golden against the casually creased white linen shirt. For a moment Grace sips her wine, savouring its full-blooded heaviness. Then she says, "And it's taken him six weeks to realise that, has it?"

"Apparently so. Not exactly the sharpest knife in the drawer, hm?"

"Don't," she scolds immediately, and she means it. There are some things it simply isn't his place to say. Especially not to her.

This time Boyd does shrug, his wide shoulders rising and falling dismissively as he replies, "Whatever."

She expects him to continue, but he doesn't. He simply stretches out his long legs and continues to watch her, the intensity of his gaze completely at odds with his indolent posture. He remains something of a predator, even now, she thinks. The great grizzled lion may be getting old, but she knows he's far from toothless. Grace tries hard not to sigh. There's no point. It's a rhetorical sort of question, but she asks it anyway: "So what happens now?"

"You tell me," he says. There's a loaded pause before he shakes his head slightly. "You should never have married him, Grace."

It's difficult to keep an edge of bitterness from creeping into her voice. "So I've been told. Frequently and at great length."

"He's nowhere near good enough for you."

"I loved him."

Boyd pounces instantly. "Past tense?"

Sometimes she forgets how astute he is, how quickly he picks up on the tiniest detail. She considers the question for far longer than is necessary and in the end she simply replies, "Some mistakes are worth making."

Boyd snorts. "What's that? The sum total of your experience as a psychologist?"

"No." It's her turn to shrug. "The sum total of my experience as a _woman_."

His reply is as brusque as it is surly. "Bollocks."

"You always did have such a wonderful way with words, Boyd."

He smiles and of course she has to look away. Extraordinary smile. Extraordinary man. The sun's dropped below the roofline now, and the plaza is starting to take on a different character. It won't be long before it's bustling with life and energy. But not quite yet. Grace puts her glass back on the small table, swats indifferently at a daring mosquito. Almost more to herself than to him, she says, "I'm not stupid, I know what everyone thought… marry in haste – "

" – repent at leisure?" he finishes for her. "Maybe. Maybe not."

"Go home, Boyd," she tells him quietly. "You've done your duty, you've found me. Now go home. Back to London."

"He misses you."

"Of _course_ he does."

"You don't believe me?"

She looks up at the fading sky. "I'm not having this conversation with you."

"Why not?"

"Because I'm not."

"Impeccable female logic, Grace."

She glares at him. It's a sad truth that he hasn't grown any less infuriating with age. "Are you still here?"

He nods solemnly. "Manifestly."

"Why?"

"I'm beginning to ask myself exactly the same question. Grace – "

"No," she says abruptly. "_No_, Boyd. I'm not talking about this, not with you, not with anyone."

"And you used to say _I_ was the stubborn one."

"My husband – "

"Your husband's an arse, Grace, and we both know it. A stupid, selfish arse who never deserved you. But it seems he loves you and he wants you back."

"And it's that simple, is it?" she challenges.

"Perhaps it could be. If you were prepared to forgive him."

He's still a very attractive man. Handsome almost because of the years rather than despite them. It doesn't help her concentration. Experience tells her that they could sit for hours like this, bantering, scoring points, getting nowhere. Once upon a time they used to enjoy it. She wonders when that changed. When they began to tire of the old, old game. And eventually of each other. It doesn't matter now, if it ever did. She doubts she'll ever watch the fog rolling in up the Thames from the sea again, doubts she'll ever walk along the Embankment in the cold grey drizzle again.

"I've always loved Tuscany," she says, deliberately changing the subject.

Boyd seems to decide to play along because he asks, "Why aren't you living in Florence?"

"Too obvious?" she suggests. "Besides, I like it here. The climate's good, the people are friendly and I can be in the centre of Livorno itself in under an hour if I fancy a change of pace."

"So this is a permanent thing, is it?" he inquiries, scratching at his short, neat beard in a slow, reflective manner.

"Perhaps. I haven't quite decided."

He goes for the jugular. "And your husband?"

She levels a calm, contemplative look at him. "I expect he'll file for divorce once he realises I'm absolutely serious about never going back to England."

The dark eyes that survey her in return are intent and intelligent. She knows they don't miss much. Never have. But his voice is smooth and almost completely impassive as he asks, "And that's what you want, is it?"

"I'm sorry, I have to go," she says, abruptly getting to her feet. Some questions are too big, too painful. The sun's quietly setting in the west, though she can't see it past the old clock tower. "It was… nice… to see you again, Boyd."

He groans in disgust. "Oh, please."

"Go back to London," Grace tells him again, but far more gently this time. "Forget about the thrill of the chase. Enjoy your retirement; heaven knows, you deserve it."

He doesn't look at her, just growls, "Not quite ready for the knacker's yard just yet."

"No," she agrees just a little sadly. "No, I don't suppose you are. Goodbye, Peter."

-oOo-

"Signora…?" Cascini's urgent voice calls, and when she turns, the stout, bald man is labouring up the dusty track behind her, his face red from the unexpected exertion. He waves vaguely at her and she halts, waits patiently for him to catch up. In heavily-accented but remarkably good English, he says, "There was a gentleman…"

"Ah," she says, giving him a polite smile. "Inglese?"

"Si," Cascini nods. Then he frowns and gestures apologetically as he tries to explain more. "Corrucciato. Um… not a happy man, I think."

A splendidly apt sort of description, all things considered. Quietly, Grace says, "It's all right, Bruno; don't worry, he found me."

She knows he has developed something of a soft spot for her since she arrived in the village and accordingly he doesn't look convinced. "This is a concern?"

"No," she reassures him, "not at all. I expect you might see him heading up this way again later. I think he may become something of a regular visitor."

"He is a friend of yours?"

For many, many years, of course. Some good, some bad. But instead of trying to explain everything that's so complicated and so wrapped in thorny experience and illicitly-shared London sunrises, Grace simply smiles and says, "My friend… and my husband."

The man looks faintly baffled, but also more than a little inquisitive. Plainly he will very quickly be sharing the exciting information with his equally plump and pleasant wife down at the main farmhouse. "Then you will bring him to eat with us. Tomorrow?"

"Perhaps," Grace says. The sun has completely disappeared behind the hills and the vinyards in a final splash of colour now, and below them the village is slowly coming alive, lights beginning to twinkle in its windows and starting to blaze in its central plaza. It's certainly not Finchley. It's not Greenwich, either. Or any part of London. But in some strange way it feels a lot like home. She smiles at Cascini again. "Anything's possible, Bruno. Anything's possible."

_- the end -_


End file.
